


Dropping Hard

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Consent Issues, D/s, Dom/sub, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, SladeRobin Week 2020, Slavery, Subdrop, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: The girl serving him honey mead is certainly pretty.---Still, it’s that boy seated on Sionis’ lap that catches his eye instead.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 341
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! ^_^ Welcome to Sladerobin Week 2020! Due to busy schedule, this will be my one and only entry this time. First chapter now, two more to follow (all relevant to the prompt). Hope you enjoy! :)
> 
>  **Day 1:** Daddy Kink | Reluctant Soulmates | **Dom/Sub World**

Slade notices him shortly after he’s sprawled himself into one of the fine velvet armchairs by the fireplace.

The girl serving him honey mead is certainly pretty. She might be short, having a tiny, bony waist (she’s just a waitress, after all, not a pleasure slave; even though they’re also on offer, they haven’t been raised and groomed for this specific purpose), but she’s got smooth, tan skin, long, thick braids and a seductive smile, expertly performed by two full lips.

Still, it’s that boy seated on Sionis’s lap that catches his eye instead.

Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s so… _different_ to every other slave around them. Different even to the rest of the male subs. He’s older than the average, to begin with. While most male pleasure slaves tend to be between sixteen and twenty (at most), this one looks like he’s crossed this line a bit. Not by much, but still. Considerably taller too, and… _meatier…_ though not in a bad way. Not at all. Not to Slade, at least.

Sionis prides that his brothels cover everyone’s tastes and, at least on that part, he’s not lying. Not one bit.

So yes. Tall and broad, but still in shape, lean and fit in the flimsy, blood-red harem pants and see-through vest of the same color that leaves his entire chest open, and all the golden jewelry embellishing him from the waist up (standard garments for male submissive slaves, when presented on special occasions).

He’s just as pretty as everyone else, yet still… something feels off. Like he doesn’t belong in those clothes.

It becomes even more apparent once one notices the scars. They’re faint, and not _too_ many, but an expert eye like Slade’s can still detect them. A very long one, diagonally down to the hip bone. A deeper one, spreading from his side to the back (the attacker was obviously aiming for the liver). A messy one by his rib, just under the armpit.

Those aren’t marks of punishment. Those were aimed to kill. They’re indicating a fighter. A warrior, maybe. This one hasn’t always been here. The more Slade studies him, the more he can tell.

He waves the pretty waitress off and swallows a generous sip of mead, his eye restlessly watching the boy, taking every other detail in. The black hair -short, but with wavy bangs thick enough. That face -sharp lines and a fine jaw. And those dimples appearing on his cheeks every time he grins or laughs -those are something else.

Yes. The kid hasn’t always been here. He still doesn’t want to be. And he hates pretending the opposite. He’s obviously been trained to do so… but not well enough. Slade reads right through the act. The fake smiles and laughs. The mask of joy.

Their eyes cross for a brief moment, and Slade catches a glimpse of a pretty shade of blue. It’s the color of the sea under the brightest Mediterranean sun.

He’s on his feet before he even finishes his drink.

“Deathstroke,” Sionis calls once Slade’s on his field of vision. “Come, my friend. Join us.”

Slade smirks and takes the seat across him.

He’s not this man’s friend (he pictures Dick rolling his eyes and pretending he’s throwing up at the implication). He’s not, and never will be. His employee, occasionally, just like this time as well. It’s why he’s here; business. Normally, he could have brought anyone else he wanted. Everyone under his command is welcome here, supposedly. But, since Billy’s been sarcastically claiming that “his back hurts,” and Dick categorically refuses to follow him in an establishment rumored to occupy even disturbingly underage subs as pleasure slaves, he’s only typically brought two of the lads. They're currently domming away some female subs.

Slade doesn’t like Roman Sionis. Doesn’t particularly like the rumors either, but frankly, it’s not enough to stop him from doing his job, and, subsequently, claiming rewards for it. He’d brought the man exactly what he’d asked for and has been paid for it. In gold, and with this entire feast in his honor. And _(and)_ with the very right to choose any slave he wants for his bed tonight.

Sionis starts rambling about his business. Slade hums now and then, doing bare minimum to fake interest. He listens, enough to be able to answer a question, but otherwise, he just keeps eyeing the kid, his whole attention flagrantly focused on him. Sionis doesn’t seem to notice too much, but the boy’s much more perceptive, apparently. At first, he gives one standard, expertly trained smirk, but soon enough he realizes Slade’s gaze won’t be going anywhere else any time soon, so he quietly chooses to silently return it.

Brave, too.

He’s even more well-built than he looked from afar, and even prettier with his cheeks flushing red. Slade revels in the thought of how those two sparkling blue eyes would look up at him, wide in fear and awe once he’s got the boy under him on some bed.

Wonders what _sounds_ he could get him to make.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find me, should you need anything,” is what Slade chooses to respond with to Sionis’s question of whether he’s going to be around or not, in case he needs his services again, before getting up on his feet. “If you’ll excuse me… I think I’ll be retiring for the night.”

“So soon? It’s still early,” the man grins, hand palming the sub’s lightly clothed thigh. “I assume you’ve already found someone to your liking?”

Slade grins, eye peering down at the boy “Indeed, I have.”

It would be impossible for even the stupidest grunt to not get his point this time.

The kid looks startled, as if he never expected that, despite how Slade has spent at least half an hour eating him out with eyes alone. Slade finds it entertaining, how he can pinpoint the exact moment Sionis’s dull eyes stop smiling behind the slots of his admittedly intimidating mask.

The grip the man has on the boy’s thigh turns surprisingly possessive, tightening to clearly painful levels. The kid stiffens, but otherwise barely reacts to it. “This one is—"

“—on offer,” Slade finishes for him. “Everyone working for you is. Your own words, Mask. Are you a man of your word?”

The man briefly wets his lips before faking a small snicker. “This one is… not… _exactly_ what you’d call a proper sub,” he carefully chooses his words. “If you’re interested in something more _challenging_ than the usual, I can certainly recommend—"

“I pride myself as being able to handle people far more unruly than this one looks,” he points out. “Warning appreciated, but I think I’ll take my chances.”

Youth’s still staring at him uneasily from where he still sits on his master’s lap, but at that very moment, his eyes turn slowly to face the dom, his teeth set together. It almost looks like he feels like getting Slade’s attention is somehow his fault.

Interesting. It seems as though Sionis has sort of a thing for this one. Slade never would have guessed. He’s not as naïve as to assume Sionis actually has feelings for the boy or for anyone else (he doubts the man is capable of that), but the way he’s trying to avoid giving him away for a single night shows irrational possessiveness, at the very least.

Unfortunately for him, he can’t really deny.

“Very well then,” the masked man fakes a smile, his grip on the boy’s skin easing down a bit. “Jason,” he then calls, and the way the sub slightly jolts tells Slade that he’s got a name now. “Show Lord Wilson to his headquarters, will you? It’s the main guestroom. You’ll be keeping him company for the night,” he indicates, grip turning firm once again, “and you’ll make sure he’s pleased by the morning.”

The boy takes a breath. “Yes, sir.”

It’s quiet still, but Slade likes the sound of that voice, and he’ll definitely make sure he hears more of it.

Sionis doesn’t give a single praise, merely slapping the sub’s thigh before taking his hands away to let him stand, and the boy does so immediately, without an inch of clumsiness. He’s almost as tall as Slade, shorter only by a few inches. Excellent posture, too.

When Slade’s gaze catches his, the kid returns it once again. Holds it, with sparkling, defiant eyes, without shying back for a single moment, and Slade feels his lips curl into a small smirk. Takes courage for any slave (let alone a submissive, supposedly trained one) to be as bold as to give such a look to a dom without explicit permission.

At this very moment, there isn’t a single thing he doesn’t find attractive about this kid.

“Go ahead,” he says idly. “Lead the way, Jason.”

Because, as tempting as it would be to hook his leather leash into the boy’s golden collar and drag him behind him, he’d rather take in the view.

The sound of his name from Slade’s mouth sends another burn at the kid’s already rapidly reddening cheeks. He murmurs a vague “Sir,” and proceeds to cross the crowdy room and exit the heavy doors.

Slade follows, pleasantly spending time by enjoying the view in front of him and trying to decide if, when those pants are off, it’ll be the ass that wins him over, or the thighs.

The room he soon finds himself in is certainly one of the finest ones. Big and spacious, walls of stone, various textiles covering them, a burning fireplace in the corner, and furniture of fine wood; double bed draped in fresh white sheets and heavy wool blankets. A chest placed at its feet. A bedside table with a chamber pot underneath it. Small wardrobe. Right by one of the windows, two chairs and another table, a bigger one. There are two silver jugs on it (the smaller one of wine, the bigger one of water, he assumes), as well as a single fine goblet. There’s also a platter of cheese, nuts and fruit under a glass cone. Across the room, there’s a heavy curtain hanging down from the ceiling, most probably blocking the entrance to the standard, necessary washroom.

As soon as the door’s shut behind both of them, Slade makes sure both bolts are hooked before turning to face his entertainment for the night.

The boy’s standing a few feet away from him, in the middle of the room. Weight slightly bent in one leg, and his hands loosely clasping one another in front of him. Waiting.

Slade ignores him, taking his time. He passes right by him (so close that their shoulders almost touch and he can actually feel the kid’s slight shiver) and stands by the chest at the foot of the bed, casually discarding cloak, sword, and then all parts of his armor, carelessly leaving them on top of it. When the white shirt goes as well and he stands merely in pants, Slade strolls his way past the kid once more, this time very deliberately allowing a touch as he passes by, heading for the table.

“Your master seems to be quite fond of you,” he remarks with his back at the kid, pouring wine into the goblet, “which is promising.” He turns, casually leaning back against the table. Folds an arm over his chest, free hand slowly dragging up the goblet. “In my experience, not many dom masters would let their preference show in a place like this.”

“And you have a lot of that?”

Slade lifts an eyebrow. Most dominants would have instantly lashed out at the boy at the face of such rudeness (subs are supposed to obey orders, not ask questions, especially in such a cold, dismissive, almost ironic tone).

Slade mostly feels amused.

“A lot of what?”

“Experience.”

He chuckles. He’s more than twice this kid’s age. Slade’s years of experience go back long before the boy was even born. “You’re a mouthy, not-so-little thing, aren’t you?”

Jason shrugs, slightly. “It’s what people expect of me.”

Of course they do. Makes sense. Kid’s not the standard sub, so the clients coming for him wouldn’t normally expect standard behavior. They’d choose him for… different things. More extreme. This is why the kid’s going down that road, he realizes. He expects it’s what Slade wants from him as well; to be rude. To be a _bad_ sub. To give him an excuse, so he can punish him. Hurt him in some way.

He wonders if some of those scars aren’t results of a battle after all.

Slade _always_ appreciates a defiant, vivid, unruly mate. Way more than a passive one. He’s got in his history an eighteen-year-old marriage that left him with a single eye. And right now, and for the past few years, he’s got another dom instead of a sub as his main partner of choice, so he guesses facts speak for themselves. His preferences aren’t exactly traditional, it’s true. And even though he’s been engaged in more games than he can count, sadism has never been his thing. Wouldn’t be his preference, unless his occasional partner enjoys it. He has known some that did (like Rose’s mother, for example), but it has always been with their full consent, if not demand.

So… the kid’s only partly right. Slade _will_ enjoy the challenge… but won’t ever accept disobedience.

 _“Sir,”_ Slade says, calmly, reminding him in this subtle warning how he should be addressing to him. “This is what you call me.”

Jason, to his credit, doesn’t back down, despite the obvious swallow. “Sir,” he breathes, bowing his head a bit.

It’s good enough, for now. “Let me see you, boy,” he orders. “Leave the jewels, for now.”

With soft, expert moves, Jason starts getting rid of his flimsy clothing. Slade brings the goblet to his lips, letting the rich taste spread on his palate while savoring the view. First goes the see-through vest, gracefully slipping down his arms and ending up on the floor, right beside the chest where Slade’s gear rests. Then there’s the gold knitted belt, and finally the harem pants. They fall down without making a single sound, and Jason takes a small step out of them, leaving behind his golden slippers as well.

The sight is far more than merely pleasing to the eye; tantalizing, to say the least.

Slade takes a few slow steps forward, cup still in one hand as he starts circling around the boy like a predator, surveying the goods.

There’s perfect proportion of lean and muscled on that body (not as much muscle as to be unpleasing to the eye, and not as lean as to rob the good parts). Arms strong, well-built inside the elaborately crafted bracelets covering them from forearm to wrist. The chest and pecs are toned, simply perfect under the rich, gold chain harness covering parts of them. There are two small rubies on top of each of the nipple clamps, connected to each other by another small, delicate chain. Moving further down, there are two simple gold cock rings circling a currently limp, impressive cock; one at the base and one around the head (the second one embellished with another blood-red ruby). The thighs are indeed a marvel (even though Slade would prefer them without Mask’s fainting bruises still there), but it’s not like the ass is lacking either; two globes standing full and plump, just enough to be delicious. He can’t tell if there’s a plug in between. Will be interesting to find out.

Slade stands behind him, taking another sip of his drink. Admiring and at the same time wondering.

Every submissive is different. Just like doms, they all have their own trigger. For some, slipping into subspace is easy –if not unavoidable. If they’re too sensitive to dominance, they can drop into subspace almost instantly. Others need very specific stimulations and circumstances. For some, it can be a real struggle.

He’ll have to find out what exactly is Jason’s thing. How can he manage to make him access that perfect elusive state. For some doms this part is the boring one, but Slade always enjoys it.

He moves, reaching out his free hand to tangle and card fingers through soft, slightly curly bangs, and the kid goes perfectly still at that. His fingers slowly unclip the heavy, bell-shaped earrings, subsequently letting them fall carelessly on the small pile of Jason’s clothes right by them. His hand then moves further down, at the back of his neck, where he unhooks the harness, hook by hook, down to the kid’s upper back.

“Take that off,” he murmurs, his lips all but pressing at the nape.

Jason obeys, not daring to turn around and look at him. Slade takes it from his hands once it’s off and throws it over the rest of the pile.

His hand then travels forward, slowly closing around the boy’s throat in a loose grip as he takes another step, and now Jason’s back is almost fully pressed against his chest. He shifts, slightly bending his head so that he breathes right behind the kid’s ear. This prompts a small shudder, and the kid all but leans against him, which has him humming appreciatively, his lips ghosting right by his ear shell. When there’s the first faint touch, he can clearly make out a gasp, feeling it by the hand he has around his throat, under the collar.

“Do you like wine, boy?” he murmurs softly, lips barely touching the shell of that ear. “Do you ever have any?”

Slade feels him swallowing through the hand he still has around his throat. “When I’m allowed to… sir,” the kid answers quietly.

“You’re allowed to right now,” he says, circling his other arm around him to bring the goblet before his lips. “Take a drink.”

Jason licks his lips before letting them touch the rim of the metal. Slade allows two generous sips before pulling it away. He takes a glimpse of the boy briefly passing tongue over his lips, taking in the aftertaste. Slade’s smile widens as he moves in front of him again. He lifts his free hand again, cupping the side of the boy’s face and slowly, softly passing his thumb over those full, damp lips. The boy’s blush returns at its wildest, which sends a twitch down Slade’s cock.

“Good, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

The kid takes one heavy breath. “Yes, sir,” comes almost as a whisper against his thumb.

They’re on the right path, it seems.

His gaze leaves the boy’s face and roams further down, along with his fingers. Down his warm throat and his pecs. He tangles two fingers around the chain of the clamps and lightly tugs, looking out for a reaction. He gets it, but it’s not a positive one. The kid jerks a bit, just slightly. Like he’s expecting an unpleasant pain to occur. Someone might have just brushed it off, but Slade is observant.

“You don’t like those?” he asks.

The kid stiffens _immediately._ Eyes dropping on the floor. Clearly doesn’t want to answer that. Possibly afraid that Slade won’t like the reply.

“The truth, boy,” he encourages.

Jason takes a small breath. “No, sir,” he swallows.

Slade hums. “Alright then. Let’s get rid of them.”

Kid’s eyes flicker up at him in surprise, and Slade pretends he ignores it, moving to place the goblet by his gear over the chest.

“Brace yourself,” he then warns, and gives him a moment to inhale before pulling both of the clamps free, one in each hand.

Jason, having apparently decided that there’s no need for faking pleasure here, can’t help but contain a violent shudder, a grimace and a pained grunt, even as he stubbornly grits his teeth.

Pain’s certainly not his thing, then. Good.

Slade assumes the clamps must have been tight, and that he must have been wearing them for some time now, judging by how bruised the skin there is. Slade shushes him, one thumb gently rubbing over one nipple as he throws the chain on the pile, before slightly bending over and taking the bud between his lips.

Jason gasps at the sensation and surprise, his arms instinctively shooting up to find leverage on Slade’s bare shoulders. He withdraws them the very next moment, like something’s burned him, but before they’re fully back, Slade’s grabbed both wrists in his hands and lifted his head.

“Permission granted, boy. You can touch. Stop holding back,” he indicates before diving down to his task yet again.

He doesn’t have to say it a second time. Kid’s arms return to hold onto him with a strength Slade’s rarely encountered in any of his sexual partners. He loves how the kid goes quite vocal above him as well. Not as much as Dick, who’s a natural born performer, but still; the bitten-off, struggled sounds, sighs and moans (both of relief and pleasure) come out so natural and sincere. Slade enjoys them thoroughly, changing to the other nipple at some point, slowly licking stripes over it, soothing the pain and stimulating reactions. Enjoying how the dull fingernails are lightly scratching against his upper arms.

When he decides there’s been enough of that, he straightens his back, taking a moment to appreciate the trembling mess he’s made of the boy; he’s openly panting now, bright pink face, feverish eyes and chewed-on lips right on display. Slade doesn’t let this chance go to waste, instantly taking those lips over with his own, one hand reaching behind the boy to squeeze a handful of his ass. The kid moans in his mouth, responding with unexpected eagerness, arms now going around Slade’s throat and tightening there.

When he breaks the kiss and takes another look, it becomes apparent that he’s worked his ministrations fairly well.

Kid’s eyes are a bit blurry, drunk. The nearly desperate way in which he wets his lips and sighs, as if seeking more of the intimate contact. The way he can hardly even breathe. The way he clings against Slade now. The way his cock feels, rapidly hardening against Slade’s upper thigh…

They’ve reached the boy’s subspace. And it wasn’t even hard. A pleasure, really.

Works both ways, too, because Slade’s already hard as a rock himself.

“Boy,” Slade demands. “Tell me if you feel good.”

The tone of his voice makes the kid sink a few inches deeper. “Good, sir,” he mumbles.

“Good boy,” Slade says approvingly and emphasizes with another firm squeeze of one ass cheek, prompting Jason to gasp at something that isn’t even praise. More like a straightforward observation, really.

Slade takes a step back, one arm falling to his side as he lightly grips the kid’s scruff with the other.

“Bed. On your back.”

There’s something about the order that almost looks like it helps the kid to draw another steady breath inside. He immediately, eagerly moves to obey as well, only barely guided by Slade’s hand still scruffing him.

“Wait a second,” he halts him once he’s on his hands and knees. “Bend your waist.”

Kid does so, presenting his ass, and Slade pulls one cheek apart to take a look. There is indeed a plug in there, only its head visible at the moment, with another ruby on top. Apparently, Sionis had made every effort to ensure his sub would be ready for him at any given time. Slade snorts, scoffingly, wondering how the man must be boiling in his own anger right now.

He lets go, and the boy flips with easy grace, resting his back at the small pile of pillows, watching, as Slade discards his pants and climbs between his legs. Kid’s hands come up and brush over Slade’s pecs as if out of instinct as he runs his own up the kid’s sides at first, and then palming those ungodly thighs further apart before leaning down to press his mouth all over them until the kid’s squirming and groaning under him like he wants to struggle him with them.

And until his own marks there have sufficiently covered Sionis’s.

He pulls the plug out easy enough, with barely any reaction from the boy. Hole’s well-stretched, smooth, uninjured, and glistening due to some kind of aromatic, essential oil used as lube. He’s glad he doesn’t have to do any preparation himself, because, quite frankly, he can’t wait. He hasn’t felt so impatient to have someone in years.

He makes sure he releases the boy’s cock from the rings. Doesn’t intend to deny him a single moment of pleasure. Takes another look on his face before he dives in, and finds him with an expression of slight uncertainty. Like he wants to ask him something.

“Tell me,” he prompts.

“Can I still touch you, sir?” the boy asks without hesitation, even though he already very much _does._

Slade laughs quietly, leaning down to mouth at his jaw. “Be my guest, boy. Be my guest.”

Arms come to brace against his own immediately, as he’s slowly filling the boy, inch by inch, and once he’s buried to the hilt, there’s an overwhelming gasp exhaled against his throat. It perfectly matches his own heavy groan.

The perfect body under his own arches, those long legs up and bended around Slade’s waist.

It doesn’t take him long to set up a rhythm. Jason moans loudly, eagerly and actively responding, meeting Slade’s thrusts by pleasurably rolling up his hips each time. He rests his forehead against the warm skin of the boy’s collarbone, mouthing his way down his pecs as both of Jason’s hands are now tangled inside Slade’s hair, messing incoherently all around in them.

“Sir!” Jason mumbles breathlessly. “Fuck, sir, I—”

Slade looks up a bit. Meets his eyes. “When I’m inside you,” he says with yet another thrust which has the boy moaning again, “call me by my name.”

Jason grits his teeth. “Slade,” he breathlessly whispers.

Slade chuckles, equally out of air. “Yeah, boy?”

Those twin blues, burning in overstimulation, blink up at him.

“Harder, Slade,” the boy rasps. _“Harder.”_

* * *

By the time they’re done, he’s come twice. And the kid, thrice.

A quick glance once he unsheathes himself relieves him, since he detects no evidence of blood. Merely the shy redness that is to be expected after contact. Slade combs fingers of both hands backwards through his hair and inhales the deepest breath before resting his head against the pillows. He allows himself a few moments of rest before gently scruffing the sub beside him, pulling him close. Jason, far too lax and pliable to say or do anything in the afterglow of such intensity, simply sinks against him, head pillowed to where Slade’s put it over his left pectoral, his chin on top of the boy’s head.

Slade slowly removes the last pieces of jewelry from his arms, as well as the collar, putting them on the bedside table. “Sleep for a while,” he rumbles, lips against the Jason’s forehead.

By this time, the sub’s more than three quarters into the session. All he can offer is a tiny, barely conceivable nod before he burrows into Slade and does exactly as indicated to him. Slade pulls covers over them and takes the time to rest, but he doesn’t sleep. He’s got Dick to thank for that. He always wants to talk and ramble after sex, and at this point, this has rendered Slade unable to instantly fall asleep like he once used to. Damn brat.

Some time later, a small sigh lets him know the kid’s back, and Slade lightly pulls him up against the headboard, both of them sitting side by side. He cups the boy’s right cheek before lightly guiding his chin up, to face him. “I’ll bring you back up now. Understood?”

"Yes, sir," Jason mumbles, still sleepy, hazed and somewhat and perfectly docile. At this very moment, he could be fine with pretty much anything Slade would come up with.

Slade hums, brushing a stray strand of now messy hair back from the kid’s forehead. “I want you to tell me something you enjoy doing in your spare time.”

Kid looks disoriented for quite a while after the question, struggling so hard that Slade’s ready to withdraw it and go for something else. “I… used to read. Once.”

Slade arches an eyebrow, exhaling approvingly. “You know how to read, then? Who taught you?”

Kid swallows hard, averting his gaze this time. “Tutors working for my father,” he swallows. “My… mentor, I mean.”

A wealthy man, no doubt, since books are a luxury of very, very few. It triggers Slade's interest and raises more than a few questions, but now is not the proper time for that.

“Tell me something you used to enjoy reading.”

“The Journeys of the Blue-Bearded Bard,” kid answers immediately.

Slade hums. “My sons used to read that one.”

More like, Joey used to read out loud, and Grant used to actively recreate everything coming out of his brother’s lips until half the room was ruins, the maids were shrilling, Adeline was grinning and neither of the boys could stand straight from all the laughter.

It’s weird how the things that once bothered you can be turned into your fondest, most bittersweet memories.

He asks more questions about the book. Jason answers each and every one of them, until he's sufficiently surfaced again. Once Slade’s certain they’ve got a full transition back to reality, he simply orders, "Stay,” before getting up, heading to the table, and returning with the jug of water and the now empty goblet, as well as the platter.

He feeds the boy himself, alternating between pieces of fruit, cheese and rusk, and bringing the water to his lips. After a certain point, when his moves are coherent enough again, he allows the boy to take what he wants on his own. Only when at least two goblets of water are drained does the kid dare to look him in the eye again.

“That was…” He breathes. Thinks about it, very seriously for a few moments. “That was fucking incredible. _Sir,”_ he adds at the end.

Slade smirks, resting against the headboard again, crossing arms behind his head. “Slade will do for when you’re out of it as well, boy,” he says. “I like the way it sounds from your lips. And we still have all night for me to hear it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! Hope you're all safe and well! <3
> 
> Sooooo... chapter 2. A late entry. XD Hope you enjoy..! :)
> 
> **Day 3:** Arranged Marriage | Bounty on Robin(s) | **Slavery**

“Care to _finally_ explain why do we keep taking jobs for this piece of filth? Two weeks ago, and now _again_?”

Slade growls. “Do tell me about how much it bothers you getting a hot meal cooked by someone who actually knows their shit about cooking, Richard.”

Dick horselaughs, spurring his stud to lead him by Slade’s own. “Oh, _‘Richard’,_ is it?” he scoffs.

Slade gives him a sideways glance, narrowing his eye at him. Dick answers with a roll of his own.

“Ever since that big job you took for Mask last year, we’ve been needlessly going back and forth. There are other opportunities out there. I don’t have to tell you that,” he points out.

“Then don’t.”

Dick tuts, _thrice,_ very much eager to make his annoyance obvious, before he slows his horse’s step so he can ride beside Wintergreen again.

“He just called me _Richard,”_ he snickers.

“I heard.” Slade can visualize the grin without turning around. “Gotta be serious.”

“Do you know anything about this?” Dick asks as if Slade isn’t even present. “Or about that damned book he got from Lombard? I’ve been trying to fish out literally any clue, but he just won’t say.”

“He’s been pretty cryptic about it, it’s true,” Wintergreen’s voice responds, sounding deeply amused, “but last time he was so persistent about going around a certain location, we ended up taking _you_ in.”

Slade makes a brief effort to think of a way to deny that, but, truth be told, yes, they haven’t followed such a pattern for the last ten years. Since he was (very much deliberately) taking jobs anywhere Dick’s wandering troupe was performing.

So. He chooses silence.

Dick whistles a lengthy _‘oooooooh!’_ before guiding his horse almost in front of Slade’s own. “Whoooooo is it, then?” he asks with a wicked smile. “Is it a sub? Female? Male? What’s the name? Are they pretty? They are, aren’t they? Is that book for them?”

Slade huffs, turning to shoot a frowning glance at Bill over his shoulder. He returns it with a grin, and a slight wave of his hand.

Choosing to skip Dick’s deliberately nosy interrogation, he takes a breath and raises his voice so that he can be heard from a distance. “Heading to Melville’s Inn for the night,” he announces.

Much as expected, a series of disappointed exclamations arises from behind.

“Nooooo, not Blüdhaven again!” a deep groan stands out.

“Did you say something, West?” he growls.

Another groan. “No, sir,” comes the dull answer from the younger dom.

“It’s a city filled with darkness,” Raven says in a low voice. “Alas, it is indeed overwhelming, visiting that often.”

“I like Blüdhaven,” Terra instantly butts in.

“Atta girl,” he praises, not having to turn around to be able to tell how content she must be looking right now. Their youngest sub is thirstiest for even his slightest crumb of approval than anyone else he’s ever met before (even going as far as to aggressively demand it, at times).

Dick hums thoughtfully beside him. “Blüdhaven is a shithole, we all know that… buuuut, just to lift spirits, I’ll remind everyone that our next job is near Star City,” he joyously remarks.

“Oh, I can’t _wait_ to see Roy’s baby,” Troy laughs somewhere close. “Garth and I were trying to think of what gifts should we get them, and actually— Wait, where _is_ Garth?”

“Stopped for a piss,” Hank informs. “Don, you jackass, it’s not all yours -throw me the flask, will you?”

They start rambling and Dick clears his throat to get his attention again.

“You didn’t answer my questions,” he smirks.

“If you’d ever come with me, you’d have your answers,” he retorts.

Dick snorts dismissively. “I don’t step a foot in there. You know that.”

“Then accept the consequences.”

Disagreeing with Dick certainly isn’t new in their relationship, but they’re way past that at this point; the know and have accepted each other by now, so heated arguments have been drastically reduced in the last few years. Slade believes their last big fight was about the southern princess. Dick was smitten with her, much to Slade’s annoyance. He’d accepted her in their squad for a while, for the kid’s shake (and because it’s always better to keep a close eye on the competition than let it bloom where you can’t control it). So he’d allowed that, even though sharing Dick with such a strong antagonist was frustrating, to say the least. The girl was impressive; very rarely does anyone meet a noble sub with such strong control over their instincts, as well as combat experience.

Eventually, their relationship had made its circle and ended. Slade knew there were still feelings on both parts, but Koriand’r had responsibilities in her kingdom; couldn’t simply leave everything and run off with a sellsword squad (even if it’s the _best_ sellsword squad). And Dick couldn’t leave Slade, of course. He would _never_ allow that. Both for his own selfish reasons, and because, without Dick, they’d have no Titans. Slade might be the group’s leader, but Dick is the glue keeping it all together. He wasn’t at all sad to lose her from the team (and have Dick all to himself once again).

Harper was a greater loss, in his opinion, but he wouldn’t force anyone stay against their will; kid had chosen to stay back and become a family man. Fair.

Based on his own experience, after a few years, he’ll probably come back running.

“Be ready to leave in the morning. We won’t be staying too long.”

“Fine, fine,” Dick sighs, giving up. “Have fun then, I guess.”

Slade definitely plans to.

* * *

His good mood dies the moment he steps into the brothel’s main room.

Sionis isn’t present tonight. It’s one of the two reasons prompting him to visit again so soon (the second being the book in his bag). He’s also found that Jason is way more relaxed when he knows he won’t be seeing his master in the next day, and Slade _very_ much appreciates Jason in a good mood. Not to mention that it works well for him, too; coming face to face (or, more accurately, face to _mask_ ) with the man is far from his favourite thing. He certainly prefers it when he comes in, gets his money and entertainment and leaves in the morning, without unpleasant meets.

It’s a rainy night, and the brothel isn’t too busy. Sionis indeed isn’t here; his right-hand man, Victor Zsasz, is seating on his ‘throne’ in the middle of the room this time. He’s got a pretty little naked blonde in his lap, as well as a redhead massaging his shoulders (both of them busty and juicy), and is far too preoccupied with the two of them. Nothing new. Until one’s gaze moves below. Because, at the right side of the throne, Slade sees Jason like he never has before.

Kid’s seated down on the floor, leaning against the surface of the chair; all but curled up to himself. His gaze sank into the void. The ill paleness of his otherwise _bruised_ face (jaw, upper right cheek and temple, split lips) is alarming. The only cloth covering him is a green shift, old enough for the color to have lost all its brightness by now. It’s sleeveless and very loose on his form, barely covering his thighs. Not a single piece of jewelry in the picture this time; instead, chains that seem to be unreasonably heavy end up in tight manacles, around both wrists and ankles, and the damn spiked _dog_ collar around his neck doesn’t look any lighter. The boy at least looks clean underneath the scattered bruises (both vivid and more faded) covering him from head to toe.

As lost in himself as he seems to be, Jason notices him soon after he enters, while Slade still stands frozen in place, taking the situation in. There’s a moment of realization before the kid shifts a bit in his chains, a sweet glimmer of hopefulness rising in his eyes. He’s quick to repress it though, sinking back down before anyone notices.

Jason’s always happy to see him (which is a pleasant change, considering that his arrival in most places is usually met with negative feelings that vary from bitterness to outrage and havoc). Much to his master’s obvious annoyance, the kid won’t hide his brightest smiles and good mood every time Slade steps inside (sometimes, frankly, Slade thinks he’s doing it a little bit on purpose, to further piss Sionis off).

This time, there’s none of that. The excitement is boxed in that single, small moment. And then there’s fear. Fear and anxiety.

Slade makes his way across the room, towards them, and at some point, inevitably, Zsasz takes notice of him as well, instantly turning nervous and utterly bemused. He pushes the girl off his lap (she stumbles forward and almost falls) and waves the one behind him away, instantly jumping up from his seat afterwards.

“We weren’t expecting you,” he roughly states.

No greetings. No preambles. No faking a good mood. This one doesn’t like him, and doesn’t bother hiding it.

Feeling’s mutual.

“No?” Slade lifts an eyebrow. “I came to collect.”

“And have you?”

Yes, he has; the woman who serves as Sionis’s treasurer and manager (Miss Li is what she goes by, he believes) is very thorough about his payments. First thing she always takes care of every time Slade arrives.

He gives a nod. Shoves down his throat the need to turn and glance at the kid again.

“Good. Is there anything else you want, then?”

Slade gives a quiet laugh, that seems to annoy the man _-good._ “From you? Nothing at all. I’ll just take my usual and retire for the night.”

Zsasz instantly steps aside, directly between him and Jason. “You’ll have to choose someone else tonight,” he sternly declares. “This one isn’t available.”

It’s at this point that Slade takes a second, purposeful look at the kid. He’s gone perfectly still, teeth set together as he watches the two of them, an ill and hazed expression on his face.

The kid’s on drop. It’s obvious now. A bad one, and he’s deep into it as well. Apparently, nobody bothered to bring him back up since last time. And who knows for how long that has been.

“Doesn’t look busy to me,” Slade comments.

“He’s in detention,” the man growls. “Boss’s orders.”

And it is to Slade’s knowledge that the said boss has been away for ten days now, visiting their new establishment in Coast City. Considering that the bruises he can currently detect must be dated back from about a week to this day, Zsasz hasn’t shied away from taking his fair share of liberties here. Makes him wonder if that was boss’s orders as well.

Probably yes.

Slade’s already tired of playing around it. “Unlock the chains, Zsasz, and give me my sub,” he says. Very, _very_ calmly.

The immediate space around them has gone considerably quieter, the air heavy with tension. Zsasz has literally gone red in anger. “He’s not _your_ sub, Wilson,” he hisses.

“Not yours either,” Slade coldly reminds him. “When’s Mask coming back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Excellent. If your boss has a problem with that, he’ll discuss it directly with me… _tomorrow._ Now. Unlock the chains. And you can keep the collar, too.”

People are now moving where they’re distinctively out of reach. Habitues from even the furthest tables are taking notice, all voices gradually fainting into murmurs and whispers. All while Zsasz’s hand is slowly moving down towards the sheath of the knife behind his back.

Slade allows for that smirk to slightly curl his lips, his fingers darting over the hilt of his sword, hanging from his waist. “If we’re going down that road… you’re going to need a bigger blade.”

There’s silence, but the mute fury of the look he receives tells him he’s already won.

It takes a few more seconds, but eventually, the man backs off. Turns his back at him, even. Moves to the kid and crouches down, retracting the ample bunch of iron keys from his belt, and chooses the right one to unlock the ankle cuffs first. Jason keeps his eyes down as the wrist cuffs follow, and, finally, the collar, which Zsasz removes abruptly before standing up again.

Only when he’s a few steps away and looks elsewhere does the boy dare a timid, uncertain lift of his gaze to look at Slade, who immediately beckons him with a short, sharp move. Jason instantly gets on his feet and approaches (despite how benumbed he clearly is). Slade closes his palm around the kid’s nape, gripping lightly, and Jason spasms a bit, before going completely lax.

“Have a marvelous evening,” he vacantly wishes to the fuming man, before ushering the boy to the door, alongside him.

Neither of them speaks a single word on their way to the usual chamber that Slade’s already been informed is waiting for him. He just lets his thumb slowly rub up and down the flank of the kid’s neck during the walk, and the way Jason slightly flexes his muscles, like he’s craving for more of his touch, actually proves slightly calming to his nerves, which is good for everyone here; his vexation is the last thing the kid needs right now.

A quick glance once they enter affirms that everything’s as neat as always; mopped floor (still slightly wet), fresh sheets on the bed and the usual platter, goblet, water and wine on the table. It’s still a bit chilly, but the newborn fire on the fireplace will soon heat up the place. Miss Li never fails to deliver, apparently, even in his most sudden arrivals.

Slade locks the door behind them and turns.

Jason is staring at him, arms crossed over his chest and nails digging into his skin, jaw tightly locked. His expression overruled by an unfamiliar mix of stress and fear that Slade hasn’t witnessed on his face before. It feels _wrong._ He doesn’t like that -any of that. Jason never looks at anyone (let alone _him)_ like this. It’s as if he expects to be hit.

Despite all of that, when Slade reaches out a hand and gestures for him, the boy’s face lights up a little, looking like a sad little puppy that just got a treat as he immediately steps closer so Slade can cup the bruised face between his hands. Cautiously; not to press anything too hard.

“Did you miss me, boy?”

Jason all but shudders at the question. His voice shaking in honesty when he manages to rasp, “Sir, I—Yes. _Yes._ So much.”

“Good boy,” Slade rumbles slowly. “So good.”

Jason gives a shaky exhale and dips his head a bit, eyes closing. Like he’s been momentarily relieved from a terrible pain he’s been in for a long while.

How long? How long have they kept him down?

He takes a breath, saying nothing. Just observing. The bruises on his face. The finger-shaped collar of marks circling his neck, along with at least three deeper bites. The similar signs of abuse on his upper arms and torso.

“What happened?” he asks stiffly, his thumbs lightly passing over cheekbones.

Jason swallows, obviously not particularly eager to answer. “I’m sorry I’m like this—”

“Kid,” Slade immediately interrupts the upcoming, unmistakable attempt of evasion. “It’s nothing I won’t learn by asking around. Tell me the truth.”

The way Slade voices it now, like a firm but gentle order, has Jason shutting his eyes and taking a short breath. “I tried to escape,” he says, voice barely audible.

Slade lets out a profound exhale.

Of course. Of course he did.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, slowly turning his face this way and that (takes notice of a nasty bite right below his ear). “Did you get far?” he then asks, eye wandering further down.

Kid shakes his head in response. And Slade won’t demand for a verbal one. He’s not in the mood to demand anything right now.

“When was that?”

Jason clutches his own arm. “I… I think… two weeks ago? A couple of days after the last time you were here.”

Slade huffs.

It hadn’t skipped his attention last time that the kid really was somewhat… different. Nervous. Distracted. Probably had been planning this for a while, and, at the time of his last visit, he was just about ready to storm off.

A couple of days. Just a couple of fucking days.

Stupid. Stupid kid. If Slade knew that, if he’d just _told_ him what he was planning to do… things would have gone very differently. He’s on the verge of telling him so, but in that very moment, shyly and almost fearfully, Jason nuzzles his face into his hands, which does things to his chest that he hasn’t felt in years, and all he ends up asking, always maintaining the light touch and the proximity, is an annoyingly simplistic, “Is the pain too much? Answer honestly.”

Jason averts his gaze. “In… some parts, sir.”

“Which ones?”

The kid shivers. Swallows. “Like… some ribs.”

Slade takes a moment to cool down the wrath flooding his head. He then slowly nods. Takes his hands away and moves towards the bed, already unfastening his cloak. “Go to the table and have something to eat and drink, until you feel your stomach’s settled,” he orders.

It’s not a full meal, but it’ll give him back some energy, and hopefully, a bit more color on his cheeks. Slade doubts he’s had anything nutritious in a while.

Jason obeys, eating quietly while Slade takes this time to undress down to the braies and settles his leather bag on the bedside table before pushing the heaviest covers off and sprawls himself on the mattress. He waits patiently, until Jason’s pace slows down, making it clear that he can’t really stomach too much of anything.

It’s sufficient, for now.

“Take your clothes off -and any toys, if you bear any- and come here. Bring the water with you,” he says (even though ‘clothes’ is a bold word to describe this rag the kid’s dressed in).

Jason’s moves are slower than the usual, and he’s obviously -and flutily- trying to repress winces and more than a few pained groans. Slade pretends he doesn’t notice, watching in silence as more and more things are slowly revealed -way more severe than what he’s already witnessed. Finger shaped bruises on both waist and hips, digging in deeply into the skin. Extensive purple contusions on his side and ribs. Vicious, messy bites on his thighs. Various fainted scars scattered around his back and even ass cheeks (obvious results of a whip or a rod). And then, high up on his right hip…

Slade feels the last bits of his equanimity rapidly melting into a river of fiery anger and bitter disgust at the sight of the image burned over the boy’s skin; skull shaped. Too similar to that daunting mask Sionis is so deeply fond of. It’s mostly done healing by this point, but the skin around it is still raw and irritated from the burn. Kid must have been unable to stand straight for days afterwards.

Branding a runaway slave (let alone a submissive one) is a common practice, and doing it to enslaved prostitutes is not unheard of either. Painful and humiliating for the victim, especially when done with the iron, as well as a permanent mark of ownership; both a punishment, and a way of enforcing fear and submission.

Seeing this thing on Jason’s skin and being unable to do anything about it wakes up dragons in him.

The kid carefully places the cloth next to Slade’s garments and comes to kneel over the bed beside him. Slade immediately lifts a hand, slowly running knuckles over the bruised skin of his face. “Don’t be scared,” he says.

Jason takes a breath, still facing down. “I’m not,” he says quietly. “Not when you’re here, sir.”

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “My beautiful boy.”

Jason sighs contently. Makes a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cry. And then breaks.

“They won’t let me,” he says, voice shaky. “They won’t tell me what… what they want me to do. I… I am…” His voice cracks into sort of a whimper. “I want to be good,” he whispers.

Slade shushes him, cursing in his head. Cursing his inability to instantly help. More words of praise, without any preceding order for the kid to obey, will register as fake. He needs to have him do something. Could either be big or small; doesn’t matter, as long as Jason feels it’s _earned._ He’d bet that the poor thing must have been deprived of any kind of proper dominance since the last time he was here. Being put down and left there, on drop, without a single word or act of praise or appreciation. A purely torturous thing to any sub, especially when combined with those excruciating physical punishments.

Jason all but spasms, fighting the need to lean closer to him. Slade hums encouragingly though, slightly pulling him forward. Jason gives in immediately, letting Slade’s hands guide him.

“Does your back hurt when you lie down?”

Jason looks puzzled at the question, but still answers it. “Not anymore, sir.”

“Then come here.”

Carefully, Slade arranges the kid so that he’s laid back against his chest before covering them both with a blanket. He cradles the boy to him under the covers, wrapping an arm around him, fingers gently caressing over the boy’s flat stomach. He runs fingers of his other hand backwards through soft black hair, slowly guiding Jason’s head to rest just under his shoulder before turning to press his lips against an eyebrow.

“Relax, now. Let go. We’re alone here. Stop thinking about them.”

Jason nuzzles his face against Slade’s skin. Usually, it’s pretty easy for the kid to go soft under his ministrations. This time, however, it takes much longer for the boy to go slack against him. Slade doesn’t lack patience or time, and eventually, he manages to bring the boy down to that familiar point; right on the edge.

“I have something for you,” he says then, stretching out a hand to fumble into his bag.

From time to time, he’d bring something back for Jason, from his journeys. At this point, after almost a year of regular visits, he knows at least the first thing about the kid. Knows his preferences (even outside of the realms of sex). He can’t really gift him with anything (slaves aren’t supposed to own any property, and if they were ever found with any, punishments were severe), but still… it somehow oddly, secretly pleased him; getting things for the kid. Bringing them back and watching him reacting to them. It’s always been… gratifying. How Jason would gasp in awe or excitement. How he’d inspect and examine whatever Slade wanted to show him, always asking just the right questions, always more than happy to engage in conversation before melting on him in even the subtlest act of kindness.

So, when he retracts the book and places it against the kid’s stomach, he gets yet another one of those moments he enjoys so much.

Jason all but jerks upwards once he sees it -what keeps him back probably being the prospect of physical pain at the abrupt movement. He reaches out slightly shaky hands to take it from his own. “A book,” he spells, like the word’s honey to his tongue. “A book! I… I haven’t seen one since…”

He cuts his sentence in the middle once he flips it over and sees the title, words crafted with thin strips of actual gold over the elaborate, brown leather cover. He turns his head to face Slade, breath catching.

“The Journeys of the Blue-Bearded Bard,” he breathes, voice a little heavy.

Slade grins. “My memory doesn’t fail me yet, boy.” He eases the kid back against him, hand returning to his hair. “Why don’t you read for me for a while.”

Jason glances at him, evidently confused, and Slade knows exactly what’s troubling him.

As much as he’d enjoy turning things even more physical, the boy’s too badly hurt, in too many places. He’s bound not to enjoy any kind of physical activity -now, and for quite a while. If anything, it might even cause the injuries to worsen. But this doesn’t mean he can’t still help the boy go through with this. Sex is far from the only way to achieve a successful session of dominance, satisfying for both participants.

“Be a good boy,” Slade urges him. “Read to me.”

He feels the shiver running through the boy’s body, before the kid settles the book in a standing position over his stomach and obeys the subtle order (suffice to assume that he’s already half-way there just from _knowing_ that was what Slade wants).

Slade’s comfortingly ruffling fingers through Jason’s hair the entire time. Occasionally, he makes the boy look up and swallow some water. In every single little break, he speaks in a low voice, right into the kid’s ear. Tells him how smooth his voice is. How much the sound of it pleases him. How much he appreciates this. How good, how obedient he is for him. He showers him in praise, and Jason drinks it all in, like a sponge; needy and desperate.

He stops him only when, by the tone of his voice, he realizes that the kid’s too deep into subspace, barely keeping his eyes open, lulled by all the calmness and relaxation. Slade takes the book from his hands and helps him settle properly down over the mattress before lying beside him and wrapping an arm around his form. He drags lips against a smooth cheek, and tells him to sleep. To sleep, and not to worry about anything.

Kid dozes off immediately. Slade lets him take all the time he needs to rest. He takes advantage of it to do the same himself, focusing on how the kid cuddles closer to him in his sleep. Reveling in his warmth. In the feeling of keeping him close.

* * *

Thankfully, he wakes up prior to the kid. Wouldn’t want to risk him getting up first and feel alone. He’d most probably go instantly into another drop. Slade’s always fully there every time Jason wakes up, to make sure he would surface smoothly. This time, it’s more necessary than any other.

“Hi there, kid,” he greets him with a brush of lips against his forehead, once those long eyelashes are lifted and those eyes blink up at him.

“Sir,” Jason mumbles, voice still a bit raspy.

Watching Jason waking up, taking his picture in while he’s all dazed from sleep, lax and pliant, his beautiful eyes dreamy and hazed, has secretly become one of his favourite things.

The boy turns his head more, mouthing softly at his jaw, and Slade gently grasps his hair, tilting his face upwards so he can kiss his lips. Just briefly, since he’s certain the cut there must be still stinging.

He sits up, his back against the headboard, and his fingers stroking along the lines of the kid’s face and neck. “Gonna bring you back up, yes?”

Jason lets his head fall back against the pillow and nods. “Yes, sir.”

He talks a little bit about their latest job (a minor thing, funded by a minor lord in the wider province of Metropolis), prompting him to ask whatever he likes. Jason’s always curious and eager to learn more about their action, so he’s got more than a few questions… including how this book came to his possession.

Slade just tells him he happened to find it randomly, in the stock of some itinerant merchant that happened to be passing by lord Lombard’s residence, and got it for a good price. The kid slightly lifts a brow at that, clearly able to tell that a book like this would have never been sold that low, but doesn’t comment on it. And Slade doesn’t intend to talk any further about it. He certainly won’t tell him about how this fine, handwritten, valuable manuscript was one of the lord’s most priceless pieces in a surprisingly rich (albeit small) library. How he, instead of money, asked for this book as his cut, and the lord, facing financial troubles for a while now, reluctantly agreed. This way, he only needed to pay eight of the nine cuts. Considering that Slade’s is always at least double to the rest of them, it was a good deal on both parts.

But he won’t say that. He won’t say that it’s all worth it either, getting to see Jason’s face shining as he holds the book in his hands and carefully flips through its pages with care and devotion, like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

He won’t say it.

“I was thinking of leaving that here, for you.”

Jason lifts his eyes, looking at him uneasily. He slowly picks himself up, grimacing a bit, and sits up beside him. “Slade, I… I can’t keep this. You know that.”

Yes. He does.

Kid’s properly surfaced again by this point, so Slade decides it’s about time he starts asking questions himself. “Where were you planning to go? If they hadn’t caught you?”

Jason inhales deeply, gaze moving to stare out of the window. “I didn’t have anything specific in mind. Didn’t care. Just… away. As far away as possible.”

Slade lifts his hand to lightly rub at the side of his face, avoiding bruised skin. “Is it really that bad in here?”

He realizes post hoc that it’s got to be the stupidest question he’s ever asked anyone. The look Jason gives him is tired and resigned. Balancing between _‘are you really asking?’_ and _‘please don’t make me answer that’._ Last thing Slade wants is to bring him into tension again, so he brushes off the unfortunate question in favor of something completely different.

“What makes this book so important to you, considering that you’ve read so many other things, from what you’ve told me?”

Jason smiles, just a bit. It’s a first time for tonight, and it’s beautiful. “It was the first thing I managed to read all on my own -after I’d been taught how to read, that is. I was twelve, and my education had only started two years earlier. My f— My mentor was so proud.”

It’s hardly the first time Jason hurries to correct himself when he refers to _that_ person -whether he really was his father or not. “Who was he?”

Kid blushes a bit. Hesitates. “Uh… he… he was… a lord,” he shrugs. Sees that Slade isn’t satisfied, and sighs. “You don’t want to hear all that.”

Slade wraps an arm around the kid’s waist, pulling him sideways against him. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he says, pressing lips against his temple. “Tell me.”

The stiffness in Jason’s muscles withdraws just a few moments later, as he takes a breath in. “Until I was ten, I was living with my mother in G— in a big city. It wasn’t so bad. My mother was loud, but sweet at me. She had yellow hair… sang, sometimes. She was a laundress. We lived in one of the rooms in the inn she was working in. We had decent food, every day. Everything necessary to make a living. My father… or, the man I knew as my father until then, my mother’s husband… he was… a thug, I guess? I don’t remember him much. He was an ass whenever he was around. At some point, he got himself caught, and hanged. Things went bad… and only got worse ever since. She got kicked out from her job because of that. We ended up in the streets, begging. She got sick. Could barely take care of herself, let alone me. I… did some things. Stole food, as well as some other stuff. Whatever I could get my hands on that I thought I could sell to someone. And I got caught, at some point.”

Kid stops to wet his lips. Winces, like he doesn’t like remembering that part. Slade shifts a bit, holding him closer.

“They would have—” He swallows. Huffs. “They wanted to amputate my arm. Right there, in front of everyone… in the main square. But then my mother came along, begging… literally dropped on her knees to plead, and in her desperation, she told them that I was B— the lord’s bastard.” Kid shrugs. Laughs, miserably. “I assumed she was lying, obviously, to get me out of this. Everyone did, but… this man, this lord was known for… you know. _Partying_ a lot. It was a claim far too serious to be simply brushed off like that. So, some men of the city’s guard came along, and took us both to the castle.”

Jason stops again, just briefly, to rub a hand over his eye. “He knew her. My— the lord. He remembered her. He’d really been with her a couple of times, ten years prior to that -my age exactly. She swore with her hand on the Bible that I was his. And I… I looked like him. A whole lot. Even the most reluctant people said so.”

Slade narrows his eye. The kid doesn’t look at him at this point, so he doesn’t notice how his expression changes spontaneously. How he grits his teeth at the sudden brain wave that hits him, because this. all of this, this story… it rings _bells._ It suddenly rings… so many bells.

Kid’s been here for six years now. He knows because he’s told him himself, and Black Mask confirmed it when Slade had randomly thrown the same question at him.

It fits. It fucking _fits._

He tells himself that it’s impossible, but then again… then again… the kid _does_ look so much like _him._

“Some people never believed it, but… he did. Even I had my doubts, but he… he looked so adamant, so certain that she was telling the truth. He was angry that she just _then_ decided to go to him -she was afraid he’d take me away from her, she said. Still, he took both of us in, and even tried to help my mother, but… she was already far too sick. She died about a month later… and he kept me. He had no other children at that point, not even bastards, so—”

“Wayne.”

Jason stops. Shudders. Goes rigid as his eyes jump up at Slade’s. “W—what?” he stutters.

Slade sits up on his knees, clasping the kid’s arm tightly. “Jason Wayne,” he says. “You’re Jason _Wayne_.”

How. How _the hell_ he’d never thought of that. How the hell he hadn’t _seen_ it? The clues? The _resemblance?_

Kid’s gone whiter than a ghost. “N—No, I… no,” he roughly shakes his head. Panicking.

Oh, what a scandal it had been. Slade had heard about it. Everyone had, in the entire kingdom. In _all_ kingdoms.

Duke Bruce Wayne of Gotham, with strong family ties to the royal family, was arguably one of the richest men in the kingdom (according to some, even richer than the king himself). Hence, his personal life was always a subject of interest everywhere around. It was shocking to everyone when, twelve years ago, he’d taken his bastard boy in, raising him like he would a prince, as rumor had it (a child that some people were even doubting was even his) and then, just two years later, went as far as to ask for a royal favor to legitimize this boy, so that he could declare him his true son and heir. A favor that was granted to him.

As far as Slade was concerned, the whole thing made him respect the man. Hardly anyone else shared his opinion, though. Considering that Wayne wasn’t even married back then, it seemed like a rushed and absurd decision; he was by far the most eligible bachelor in the whole world, but not a single one of the highest aristocrats would be interested in wasting a precious daughter in a marriage that wouldn’t produce the heir to Wayne’s titles and fortune. It seemed like such a wasted chance, such an… emotional decision to everyone’s eyes. It was widely well-known that Wayne cherished that child like no one else in the world.

Slade could see why.

“He made you hide it, didn’t he? Sure. He sure did. Wouldn’t want anyone finding out,” he snorts, before lightly tugging at his arm. “Answer me, Jason!”

The boy’s actually shaking by this point. “I… I can’t.”

“Bruce Wayne is your father,” Slade insists. “Isn’t he?”

“I’m— Please. I’m… not allowed,” he croaks.

Of course. Of course he’s not.

“To call him your father?”

The sound Jason makes is clearly a whimper this time. He pulls himself away and wraps both arms around his torso, refusing to look at him anymore. Slade huffs impatiently, but he knows this won’t help at all right now, so his touch is gentle again as he approaches once more and smoothly runs a hand through the kid’s hair.

“He looked everywhere for you after that battle,” he speaks softly. “For _years,_ boy. Offered a fortune to anyone that would provide him with any valid information. I doubt he’d ever stopped if he hadn’t caught the Jester.”

Jason’s face snaps up in an instant, his eyes filled with so much pain and hatred that Slade’s never witnessed before in his expression. _“Him,”_ he hisses.

Slade nods. “He managed to capture him two years after your disappearance. He told your father you’d died on the road, while they were transferring you. Wayne executed him immediately, right on the spot.”

The kid’s breathless for a moment. “He’s dead, then?”

“Yeah, boy. Feeding the worms,” Slade assures him. “Was it him that brought you here, to Mask?”

Jason briefly shuts his eyes. “This is the only type of castle I ever belonged in,” he swallows. “That’s what he said.”

And, Slade assumes, Sionis had been more than eager to keep this young, sweet, special little thing all to himself.

Jason was only sixteen back then. _Sixteen._ Barely older than a child.

“Your father… he got married three years ago, to a foreign princess from the east, the youngest daughter of Ra’s al Ghul. They have a son together. Expecting a second, from what I’m hearing. You have siblings now, but he hasn’t forgotten you. He could never. Even though he thinks he’s lost you,” Slade tells him, running a hand up and down his arm. “Word has it that he’s built a whole shrine for you within the castle. Two schools, specifically for the neglected, illegitimate children of the high-born lords of his province. Three big asylums in the city, for orphaned children. And six months after your death was announced, he took a noble orphaned boy, the son of Marquis Drake, as his ward. He did that in your name as well.”

The boy looks fragile in every single possible way. Like he’s about to break any moment now.

“Everyone says Wayne’s not the same man ever since,” he goes on. “I don’t think he was able to overcome the loss.” That much, at least, Slade can tell from experience. “I hadn’t met him before that, but from what I’ve been told and from what I’ve seen of him myself nowadays—”

Jason gasps. “You’ve seen him?”

Slade sighs. “I know your father,” he admits. “Met him… fought against him. And lost.” He pauses. “I don’t particularly like him. It’s mutual.”

He moves so that he’s kneeling in front of the boy. Takes his face in his hands again, and looks into those eyes that he hasn’t stopped thinking about for a single day ever since he first encountered them.

“I’ll send a word to him,” he promises. And he _means_ it. “Tomorrow. One of my boys is the fastest courier you’ll ever meet. He can make it to Gotham and deliver it himself in just one month.”

Jason’s eyes look disturbingly empty, starring at nothingness. “It’s no use.”

Slade frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Finding out. It’ll just hurt him more, because… because Roman’s coming back. Today,” he quietly, steadily burbles.

There’s something definitive about his tone. A surrender.

Resignation.

Slade takes his chin and tilts his head up. “Nothing,” he says intensely, “is going to happen to you.”

Jason blinks twice and takes a breath. Before Slade can stop him, he reaches forward, curling both arms around his neck, and presses lips against his in a devouring, desperate kiss. As much as he cares about the kid’s comfort and injuries, he’s just too selfish to not accept that. He wraps arms around the boy, moving him so that he’s straddling his lap, legs parted at each side of him. The kiss only breaks when they’re both out of breath, only for the kid to bury his face against Slade’s shoulder and nuzzle closer as Slade’s running hands across his back, gently massaging at his tortured muscles.

“Every time you come here,” is whispered against his skin, “it feels like I’m alive again. Only with you.”

The words feel like liquid fire in his chest, and Slade instantly breaks the contact so he can look him in the eye.

This boy never fails to leave him speechless. Slade just… doesn’t know how to respond to that. Never knew. With anyone. He’s not even certain about how he really feels about this statement. Or, more accurately, doesn’t want to have to admit it. Not even to himself.

Those feelings and the retrospection can wait, though. They fade out in the face of how, apart from emotional, this statement is also deeply, painfully alarming.

It feels ominous.

Jason wets his lips. Lightly grips at Slade’s shoulders. “I just… I wanted to tell you that. Wanted you to know that.”

It feels… like a farewell.

All he can think of doing is clutching him tighter against him. As if this will manage to erase all those dreadful thoughts from the boy’s head. He leans forward and gives him another kiss. Softer this time. Slower, and deeper. Until the boy’s relaxed against him once more.

Slowly, and carefully, he maneuvers him and lays him back against the mattress once more. Gives him another kiss before lying down as well and pulling the covers them.

They don’t say anything this time. Simply keep their faces close to each other. Breathing each other in.

Kid falls asleep after a while. Slade doesn’t. Won’t. _Can’t._

By the time the new, grey day has ominously arrived, he still has no plan. And then, within a moment, something clicks in his mind, and he decides that, in the end, the best course of action here might be to just quit planning… and go full force.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey theeeeere!! Finale here! Took longer than I expected, but at least it's, you know... a pile. XD This would normally go for Day 8 of Sladerobin Week, the Free Day, because I couldn't fit it into any other prompts. XD
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! <3

Kid’s still asleep when Slade slides out of bed and slips into his shirt, pants, and boots.

He pulls out of his bag a small piece of parchment and heads to the table. Takes a seat on the chair, pulling out his stylus (he’s removed the feathers from the quill, leaving just the hollow, stick-like portion to serve as pen; lighter, practical and more flexible than a reed or cane. Easily carried). Writes exactly three lines and ties it into the smallest roll he can manage.

He quietly exits the room and walks up until the end of the hallway until he finds someone. It’s a girl, no older than fifteen, he bets; curly blonde hair, shinny blue eyes and impressive, large breasts. He instantly identifies her as the one occupying Zsasz’s lap last night.

“Girl. Come here.”

She lifts a brow. Takes a glance over her shoulder, to make sure nobody’s watching before taking her time to slowly stroll her way to him.

“Going to bed right now. If you want an extra, you need to talk to Victor first,” she warns him.

 _Also_ an unruly one. Seems like they have a pattern here. Slade her eyes her up and down for a moment. “How do they call you?”

“Steph,” she sighs, pushing a rich bang of hair back.

“Right. Will you able to get out of here, if need be?”

She narrows her eyes, suspiciously. “Maybe,” she vaguely responds. “What would I make out of it?”

Slade barely holds back a smirk, because he does like professionals as much as he likes things given to him straight-forward. He fishes out the pouch of silver he’s got in his belt and throws it to her. She catches it mid-air, unfolds it with two smooth moves, and her eyes widen before she swiftly stores it in some hidden fold or pocket of her harem pants.

“I’m listening, sir,” she urges, suddenly eager, and much more obedient.

Slade hums. “You know how to read?”

The girl sulks. “Well, that’s the first time anyone’s got a kink like _that._ Nah, I don’t.”

“Excellent,” he pulls out the small roll, putting it in her hand. “Go to Mellville’s Inn. Ask for either Bill Wintergreen or Dick Grayson. First is old, white hair, big mustache. Second is a pretty boy, black hair and blue eyes -you won’t have seen anyone like him before. Whoever appears, you give them this.”

The girl nods, quick to hide it in her cleavage. Slade takes her chin in hand and lifts her head a bit. She tenses immediately at the traditionally domineering gesture.

“That’s all you have to do, sweet thing. If you lose it, you die. It’s that simple. Can you take the risk, or should I take the goods back?”

Her breath catches for a moment, before it evens out again. “Will do, sir.”

“Good girl,” he praises.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, Slade’s already up. Jason lies very still, watching him getting back into his gear again.

It’s already noon. Probably early afternoon, though no one could tell with absolute certainty by simply glancing out of the window; it’s a cold, cloudy day, without a glimpse of sunlight coming from the sky. Jason wishes he could spend the entirety of it just like that; lying on that bed, tangled up in clean sheets and soft blankets.

He hasn’t slept in a bed for the past two weeks. And the cold, hard floors certainly haven’t done anything to help his constantly renewed injuries.

Slade finishes and approaches. Leans over him, fists resting on the mattress by either side of his face, and kisses along his shoulder and collarbone.

It makes him shiver in delight. Always does.

Slade runs fingers through his hair. He doesn’t speak the words, but Jason knows.

This past night has been blessing, in every possible way… but it’s now time to return to reality.

Slade helps him sit up and get back in his shift before crouching in front of him, placing one hand over his bruised knee. “Have you ever known me _not_ to keep my word?”

Jason feels his throat tight and miserable. Can’t voice anything past the lump blocking it right now, so he answers that by merely shaking his head. Slade takes his chin in hand, thumb brushing just below his bottom lip. “Then keep this in mind and be strong.”

Jason doesn’t believe him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him. He does; he thought he’d never trust anyone ever again, until he met Slade. And he doesn’t doubt him. Doesn’t doubt his intentions. His word. His honor. He can’t, even if he wanted. But the thing is… it’s not in Slade’s hands anymore.

Jason’s going to die tonight. Slade can’t tell, but he knows. Roman’s going to kill him. This time, nothing will stop him.

He silently curses himself for not having found the courage to ask Slade to do it. It was at the tip of his tongue the entire night. He should have just asked. Even if he’d said no and got angry, what was there to be afraid of? He’s doomed anyway. But if he said yes… it would probably be the best outcome for him, because Slade… he wouldn’t hurt him. He’d make it fast. Painless.

‘Painless’ is a word unknown to Roman.

When his brutes had dragged him back in this hellhouse, Jason had been met with blind fury. The force of the blows had made him black out, and he wouldn’t have been alive now, if it hadn’t been for Victor interfering and stopping him. Not out of the goodness of his heart, of course. _You’re leaving tomorrow, so leave him to me,_ he’d said. Leave him in his hands, so that he tries to… discipline him.

He doesn’t have much recollection from the past two weeks. It’s as if his mind has been trying to suppress it. Erase as much of it as possible. The nightmarish memories are scattered, and, on second thought, this might also have something to do with the initial head injury caused by Roman’s kicks. Ever since, he’s been suffering things that could be the result of some mild commotion of the brain; scattered memories. Occasional confusion. Headaches. His vision blurring, from time to time.

It’s been two or three days now that the roughest of all of that has stopped. Or paused. In any case, Victor hasn’t been paying as much attention to him. Being ignored while internally aching and melting for even the slightest word of praise was a perfectly valid torture method on his own, but at least it wasn’t as much combined with the physical thing as it was in the beginning. A minor relief, but still… it had given him the tiniest bit of hope.

And then Slade appeared. And Jason’s heart had melted, like it always did.

Ever since that wretched day the Jester had delivered him in Roman’s hands and the infamous Black Mask had made sure to painfully stake his claim on him, scarring his sixteen-year-old body and soul irreversibly, Jason’s been fucked countless times. Yet still, to this day, he firmly believes, in his heart, that the very first time he ever had sex -real, actual sex- was with Slade. He was, after all, the only person that was able to make him feel good (incredible, really) during. And before. And, most importantly, after.

Jason was already half-way down just from knowing that he’d get to sleep, to rest safely, and then wake up beside him. All he needed was for Slade to tell him -and keep telling him- that he was good; that he wasn't a bad sub. That was just about it. And there was never a drop with him, either. Never. He was always there every time Jason woke up, to make sure he would surface properly. He’d never hurt him, physically or otherwise. Never humiliated him. If anything, he even made him feel valued. Important, and _healthy._ And Jason hadn’t felt that since the last time he was home.

He cherishes very few memories like he does his first time with Slade. One of his mother, singing, laughing out loud and playing with him, healthy and happy, back when Jason was very little, Willis was away, and things were still good. A cold, winter evening in Bruce’s private library, seated with Alfred by the fireplace and being taught how to write the letter G. Bruce, taking his blushed face in his hands after Jason had read to him an entire text for the first time and looking at him like he was something precious before pressing a kiss on his forehead and pulling him in his arms.

Bruce… _Bruce._

Slade’s standing on his feet again. Jason. forces himself to look up at him, and take the hand that’s offered to him, without further ado.

They walk out of the room. Jason follows him, head hanging low, and once they’ve reached the main hall, he takes notice of Miss Li carrying Roman’s special goblet (the only one he drinks from, and only she is allowed to touch other than him) in the main room.

He’s back.

They’re just about done.

At least _he_ is.

* * *

Sionis is standing just a few feet away when they enter, listening to his still clearly narky lackey narrating what Slade would bet is, even though he can’t catch but random words from this distance, last night’s events.

Their eyes pierce through both of them once their presence is noticed. Slade can practically hear Jason’s breath hitching from behind as the masked man then approaches alone -Zsasz moving to one of the nearby tables.

“I’m not sure who should welcome whom here,” Mask pointedly remarks once they’re standing face to face.

A cold smirk lifts the corners of his lips, just slightly. “True that.”

Mask hums, and his eyes behind the slots are vomiting liquid fire. He snaps his fingers, just once, and Jason quietly moves to go and stand by him. It doesn’t skip Slade’s attention how all bits of color are once again gone, his face being a blank, expressionless mask of void.

“You received your payment… in full, I take it,” he dryly comments, wrapping an arm around Jason’s waist and abruptly pulling him so that he’s tightly pressed against him, hip to hip.

There’s an unmistakable shiver running through the boy, but he doesn’t visibly react otherwise. Not even as Sionis’s hand crudely slips further down, groping his outer thigh and slightly moving the shift upwards, to his hip… so that his fingers can stroke over the brand burnt in his flesh.

“Indeed,” Slade flatly replies.

“Excellent. We’d just hate to keep a busy man like yourself from his business any longer.”

He wants him gone, as he subtly clarifies here. Apparently, Slade’s pissed him of, big time. “I’m taking a break,” he idly says. “Think I’ll be staying… just for a little longer. Unless there’s a problem with that.”

There’s a tense moment of silence, followed by a quiet, cold chuckle. “Be my guest.”

The man turns his back at him. The raw possessiveness in which he drags the kid away with him as he heads for his throne makes it very clear that he doesn’t plan on sharing anymore.

Jason doesn’t look at him again. Not once. Just lets himself be pulled away, head still hanging low.

Slade takes a seat in an armchair by one of the smaller hearths. In a place from where he can still keep an eye on them both. The view won’t do wonders to the bile and rage boiling in his gut, but he’ll at least be able to keep an eye on the kid.

It’s already afternoon by now. Sky outside gradually growing darker. More slaves arrive, and at some point, he takes notice of the girl -Steph. She’s preoccupied with a client who seems a bit too interested in her to let her go for a single moment, but she still does get a moment to cleverly sign at him that everything’s fine.

Slade takes a big sip of the mead a servant boy serves him and waits.

* * *

“Did you have a good time last night?”

Jason didn’t think his heart could freeze like it does the second those words reach his ears. And yet it does. It does, and it shakes him to his core.

He hasn’t dared to lift his eyes so far. Dreads the moment that he’ll be forced to do so. Because he will be. It’s pretty much inevitable. The way Roman has him settled in his lap, their chests pressed together, doesn’t leave him any space. Literally, and figuratively. And this time, he somehow feels more trapped than ever before.

“Did he fuck you good?” Roman quietly growls. “Loosened you up for daddy? Hmm? Told Victor not to fuck you those last four or five days before I got here. Wanted this all to myself again. Open you up like it’s the very first time again… but he just had to come here and spoil it for me. And you liked it. You always do. Isn’t that right?”

Even if there was an appropriate answer, Jason’s mind is far too exhausted to gather any words. His stomach too tight and miserable. His willpower too focused on holding himself back from throwing up.

The moment he’d spotted Slade in the room last night… despite how it momentarily sent his heart to heaven, Jason knew that, once Roman returned and heard he’d spent the night with him, he was doomed. And this time, no one else would be able to stop him.

Ever since Jason had been dropped off in his hands, he was, more or less, exclusive to Roman. Victor could always take liberties as his trainer, but he was only given to any other people under special circumstances, and always with Roman’s full consent. None of them was worse than his owner, but still, they were darn close.

Roman didn’t want to give him to Slade that first time. He was basically forced to. Jason’s pretty sure he never intended to let it happen again, but… apparently, Slade and his squad are beyond just effective in what they do. And _-and-_ Slade was clearly _very_ much enjoying having Jason into his bed. Roman absolutely needed effectiveness in his job, so… it was inevitable.

He was jealous out of his mind. He’d never phrased it, but it was obvious. Not due to genuine feeling of course; this was pure, unwholesome, messed-up possessiveness. Result of the general unhealthy obsession Roman had with him. After each night he spent with Slade, Jason knew he was bound to suffer. To be fucked brutally. Senseless, at times. All while ordered, again and again, to describe every single thing Slade did to him, in thorough detail, and say if he liked it. And no matter how Jason tried to hide it, no matter how he lied about it (wanting to keep these moments just for himself; the only private thing he ever got to experience), Roman _knew_ how much he did. Could see it in Jason’s face; how his heart fluttered, and his eyes shone every time Slade entered. How content and whole he felt every time he came back from a night with him. He knew… and he _hated_ it. Hated how Jason enjoyed his time with someone else. How someone _else_ was able to make him feel that way. Like it was Jason’s fault that he couldn’t enjoy the foul, unspeakable things Roman was subjecting him to.

He’d never told Slade. Didn’t want to negatively affect or lose their time together. To Jason, every single night with him was worth the pain that followed. Even if he knew he was going to be left hurt and sore for days because of it.

“Of course you did. Of course. He just comes here and makes my little prince forget his place. _Again.”_

His place. Yes. They’d established that early on as well. Since the beginning, when Roman had dedicated a considerable amount of time to make the rules known to him, and one of the first and most adamant ones was that he learned his place; that he was Roman’s, and only his. Nothing but a bastard, spared and taken in by a lord that was most probably grooming him, waiting until he grew enough so that his body had formed in good shape to then take him into his bed. Roman made sure to repeat that to him, often laughing while he fucked him on the mattress, getting him even more nauseated than he already was, revulsion burning his insides.

Jason was able to tell, from the very first moment, why that was. Roman wanted to make him feel appalled and disgusted every time any memory of his father came up. And for a while, he even succeeded in it. Managed to get him to connect Bruce’s name with pain and disgust. From the moment he stopped restlessly and fiercely denying his claims though (that he ever had a real father at all; let alone a lord), Roman had put an end in that, apparently feeling pleased with himself, believing that he was successful to his plan. Little did the beast know that Jason was actually far more stubborn than he thought. Stopping didn’t mean he really believed. it. Or that he ever forgot. He’d just decided to make things a little easier for himself, getting the time to heal and wash this vulgar poison away.

He’d made it, eventually. And, of course, kept it to himself, never even mentioning anything related to Bruce. Yet every time he was in the crowdy main room, to this day, his ears were always tense, desperate to hear anything at all about him. Hopefully, that he’s still alive. That he’s well. That he’s still the kind, honorable, fair and just man Jason knew him to be.

It would be enough to soothe his soul. He just… he really wanted to be able to be thinking that his loved ones were safe and happy. Commander Gordon and Barbara. Alfred and Bruce. And now… his brother, too.

That’s right. He has a brother now. A baby brother that he’s never going to meet.

Since Slade mentioned it, Jason has been trying to picture his face. Wondering what he looks like. What is his name. If he’s a happy baby. He… he should have asked Slade if he knew anything more, but emotions were just too much in that moment. He regrets it now. He’d very much like to know anything anyone could tell him about him.

During his first year with Roman, he still maintained hope. Believed that someone, at some point, would find out about him. But he’s given up by this point. And now that Slade’s here, it’s too late.

It’s tragic. And ironic. A cruel joke of fate. Just like his entire life has been.

“Nothing to say?” Roman presses him, both hands squeezing his thighs. “Victor didn’t hurt your tongue or something, did he? Told him not to, but you know how he can be sometimes.”

One of his hands reaches behind him. Takes a handful of his ass and squeezes, and Jason all but retches.

When he was overpowered and grabbed during the battle of Qurac, then tied up and dragged behind that caravan of horror of Jester’s, and was subjected into every possible kind of humiliation a kid his age could ever imagine, he thought he would never be able to hate anyone as much as he hated that deranged lunatic. Until he was delivered to Roman, that was.

Every single negative feeling there is in this world… this man causes it to him. Jason hates him. And fears him. He _loathes_ him. Abominates him. Every time he’s touched like that by him feels like a new, small death. It’s worse since Slade appeared. Before him, Jason had found ways to deal with it. To mentally leave his body and just be somewhere else for the duration of it all, but… it’s been increasingly harder lately. Now that he knows what the touch of a true dom, one that wants him but also cares for him as well, feels like.

“Alright,” Roman drawls, the cold stone of his mask pressed against Jason’s skin, lips grazing at the side of his jaw through the mouth slot. “I’ll speak, then. Tell you a story I heard in Coast by one of our keeper’s pimps there.”

Jason doesn’t want to hear the story. Doesn’t want to hear anything, really. He just wants to close his eyes and sink into oblivion, but those vile hands on him cruelly keep him in reality.

“See, there was this whore a friend of his once had. Apparently, she was a very, very pretty thing. Only she liked to _talk._ A lot. And then she did the one single thing that can utterly destroy you in our line of business; fell in love. With a man of the city’s guard. She loved talking _to him,_ in particular. And the things she told him caused her pimp to get arrested and imprisoned for some irrelevant illegal activities. Now, when he got out, he looked for her… and found her, in a nearby city. And once he did, he made her swallow a towel. The whore didn’t want to, but… you can understand. She was a sub; she’d do anything for a dom once she’d been forced down big time; anything to be good. So, she was swallowing… and swallowing the towel… as the guy kept holding it by the edge. And once she’d almost made it… he pulled it out abruptly. Along with her esophagus.”

Jason’s breath catches, and Roman grins, his teeth closing roughly at the flesh of his neck, close to his ear. Jason jerks at the sharp, sudden pain, but he’s held closer and more tightly in response, until he eases down once again.

“It took that pretty whore ten hours to die after that,” he whispers right beside Jason’s ear. “Ten hours of endless agony.”

Roman nudges him back a bit, and that’s when he takes his chin, tilting his head up and forcing him to look him in the eyes for the first time tonight. Presses a thumb over his lips until they part so he can hook it in the wet heat of his mouth. Jason shudders as more fingers are added, being slowly rocked in and out, and he feels the last bits of his strength abandoning him, only standing upright due to the hands still holding him.

“You’re so lucky I like your mouth so much, baby,” Roman murmurs. “So very lucky.”

* * *

It takes a lot of self-control for him to remain seated and not lunge forward when he sees Mask dragging the kid out of the room -Zsasz instantly rushing to follow them. Instead, he turns to glance outside, from the nearby window; it’s getting dark already, a deeper shade of blue painting the landscape. The sun will be setting soon.

Just little more, he tells himself. And it better be _just_ a little more, otherwise, someone’s bound to get their ass handed to them. Either the girl, or whatever Titan is the reason behind the delay.

Minutes pass. Each and every one of them impossibly long. The mead doesn’t do anything to ease his tension down. Thinking of what could be happening to the kid right now feels like he’s sitting on burning coal.

By the time Dick, Donna, Wally, Garth, Hank and Don finally appear, his eye’s been starring at the entrance so intently and for so long that he doesn’t take it in immediately. The house is already brimming with clients at this hour, and alcohol’s steadily lifting spirits and stimulating tempers.

Just what they’ll need.

Dick locates him right away and approaches, making his way through the small groups of standing clients and workers as the others take a seat. More than a few eyes follow his step, shamelessly leering at him. Dick has that effect on people. He’s a masterpiece, head to toe; unreal good looks, neat and fine clothes, gracious moves. Could never go unnoticed, especially in a place like this.

“I hope there’s a good reason for this,” he huffs instead of a proper greeting as he throws himself on a chair next to him. “You know I’d never step a foot—”

“We’ll be leaving soon,” Slade cuts him off, eye darting around. “Wintergreen?”

“Him and the girls must have arrived at Dunelm by now. About two hours ago, I’d say. They better have a fire going by the time we get there…”

“You and the others will give me a diversion. I need you to keep everyone occupied until I go get something.”

Dick lifts an eyebrow. “And what that something might be?”

“Go back to the others. Me getting up; that’s your signal.”

Dick sighs, rolling eyes. “Our signal to do _what_?”

Slade turns to meet his gaze, reaching out to trace Dick’s jaw with light fingers. “Wreak havoc.”

That look slowly coming up his pretty face, that mischievous shine, that bright, wild joy, is only one of the many, many reasons why he’s never letting Dick Grayson go, no matter what. _“Really?”_

“Unless you’ve got something else planned for the evening.”

Dick chuckles. He despises this place, and everything it represents, so Slade’s laconic order has him looking like an excited kid, eager and impatient to go right for his treat. But, since Dick isn’t a sub, orders don’t just go down his throat without questioning (which is _another_ reason why Slade will never get tired of him; the never-ending challenge). “I’m just wondering what did Sionis do to piss you off like that.”

Slade gives him a dour, sideways glance before turning to lazily gaze at the crowd once again. “I’ll be leaving first. The rest of you follow only when this place lies in ruins. We’re all meeting at the house. Go.”

He feels movement beside him as Dick gets on his feet, leaning very close to him as he does so, just so he can whisper in his ear a soft yet heated, “Yes, sir,” before walking away.

Slade waits until he’s seated by the others again. Even gives them a few moments to decide which one of them will be starting the party. Judging by the way Hank rubs his hands together, feral excitement imprinted on his face as he subsequently raises his cup at him, it’s got to be him.

He finishes his mead and gets off the chair, and across the room, Hank mimics him, moving swiftly; he spins and grabs the wrist of a girl behind him (one of the prostitutes, pretty and clearly very drunk), pulling her towards him and whispering something to her ear. She giggles, fully leaning against him, but the beast of a man she’d been hanging with looks far from pleased about it.

“Hey!” he barks, aggressively stepping forward. “The fuck you think you’re doing? Go get your own!”

“Well, I like this one, and she seems to like me back, no?” Hank talks back at him. “Not my fault if you’re not quite functioning, man.”

“Oh, I’ll mess you up, you fucking—”

This first conflict arises and they’re instantly coming to blows, the drunk girl now shrilling. It’s all it takes to get things going, but the rest of the Titans won’t rest until they’re certain the dance is on for good.

“—you tried to _grab_ me, you bastard!” Donna’s angrily yelling at someone. “Do I look like I work here? I’m a _client!”_

“Grab you?! You were on my way, you damn slut!” the screams at her.

“Wait-wait-wait,” Dick butts in. “What did you call my… uh… sister, pal?”

“Your bitch sister better watch her cunt mouth, _pal,_ or else—”

The second bomb pleasantly erupts, with four men against Donna and Dick (this guy’s companions, apparently). At the very same time, Wally’s already raising tensions between a group of five and another one of three, insisting that he witnessed one of the doms of the bigger group trying to pickpocket the hugest guy on the other. Garth is already exchanging punches right in the middle of the room, and even though he can’t currently locate Don, Slade bets he’s doing his fair share of contribution somewhere around as well.

By the time he’s reached the door (throwing one or two punches himself while at it), the entire place feels very much like a battlefield. Male and female whores are trying to sneak their way out (many of them actually using the windows) while, in the opposite direction, Sionis’s brutes are racing to enter. As if they could put a stop at it at this point.

Slade waits a little more, until at least most of them have made it inside before he exits, only to see, to his great satisfaction, that the commotion’s rapidly spreading there too, with several clients demanding their money back as a refund for their ruined experience and some of them heatedly arguing about who should get it first. There are also various prostitutes screaming at each other, for reasons unknown to him.

He notices Miss Li’s trying to sneak away with a tattered, ugly leather bag. He assumes it contains tonight’s current revenue. She’s left a random, clearly desperate and panicked young man in the reception, to deal with the increasingly angry crowd. He moves quickly, grabbing her arm. “Your boss,” he demands. “Where is he?”

Miss Li is far from an idiot. It’s obvious in her otherwise expressionless face that she’s immediately caught his involvement in this. Her eyes are narrowed, and Slade instantly knows he’ll be getting nothing from her, no matter what he does.

“I know where he is.”

He turns his head to take a look. Behind him stands the blonde girl -Steph. A little pale, but obviously unharmed.

“I can take you,” she dares another step forward, “but she has the keys. In her garter.”

Miss Li’s starring at the girl with nothing sort of pure poison in her eyes when he turns back to her. “Give them, or I’ll get them myself.”

The woman studies him for a second, lips tightly pressed into the thinnest line, before stiffly reaching for her dress and pulls it up to her hip. Right there, in a small sheathe sewed at the fabric of her garter, there is indeed bunch of at least ten keys. In another sheathe next to it, there’s a small, handy knife. Apparently, she’s smart enough not to try and use it against him.

Slade grabs the keys from her hand as the dress falls back down, covering her legs once more. The very next moment, the girl very unexpectedly slips under his arm and grabs the leather bag, managing to detach it from the woman’s shoulder and pull it to her chest. Miss Li instantly tries to grab it back, but Slade easily pushes her back with one hand. Doesn’t know why. He kinda likes this girl, he supposes. Smart, daring and resourceful. Not that she reminds him of his daughter, but…

Well. She kind of does, actually.

He follows the girl without another word to the woman, leaving her boiling in her massive defeat. They pass by another group of quarrelling men and head to a narrow door -the entrance blocked by a long, heavy piece of fabric. A small corridor leads them to a spacious kitchen; the backdoor’s left hanging open, and no person is anywhere to be found. Oven’s open and burning, and two pots are left with boiling water overflowing and spilling all over the hearth, gradually putting the fire out.

The girl grabs one of the largest knives on sight and hooks it in her belt (another smart move on her part) before making her way to a small door Slade would assume leads to a cellar or pantry. He’s not wrong, he realizes once he follows (he has to bend to fit the opening), but there’s something else there, too; another door, right by a collection of huge barrels of mead.

Steph swiftly unlocks and enters first. There are a few stairs, about twenty, dimly lit by torches on the walls downstairs.

They end up in a long, narrow aisle. A _prison_ aisle: both sides occupied by built-in cells. Two or three of them are empty. In most of them though, behind the bars, there are kids. _Kids._ Two to four in each. Shabby and raggedy. Even though they don’t look dirty or malnourished, their expressions, an impossible mixture of stress and blankness, go straight into anyone’s soul.

Slade spots some that don’t really look over than ten. And none that seems to be over fifteen.

“That way,” the girl points at the end of the aisle. “That’s… there’s a room. There.”

She then moves to the side, towards the first cell’s door, instantly trying one of the keys to the lock. Slade’s gaze follows her, and for a second there, she slows down and gets agitated. As if she’s afraid he’s going to stop her.

“Be quick about it,” he merely growls, hand jumping to his sword’s handle as he moves ahead.

The commotion from upstairs doesn’t reach down here. Behind him, he can only hear the frantic sounds of the keys thumping in metal bars as the girl fumbles with them, trying to find the right ones, and the whispers of the children, presumably asking what exactly is going on. The sounds coming from the front are… vague. Talking. Cackling. An ominous, sizzling noise.

And soon, footsteps. Approaching.

“Keep quiet, you brats, or else I swear—”

Zsasz halts abruptly, eyes widening in surprise, which just so happens to give him two seconds. Which is all the time he needs.

In one swift move, Slade slides out the knife kept in his sleeve (won’t do him the honor of drawing his sword), essentially giving the other man no time to react. Crushing his free forearm on his chest, he pushes him backwards, flattening him on the wall, and sinks the knife right in the middle of his throat, till the hilt digs into skin.

Slade’s no sadist. Yet the eyes of this particular man filled with shock and horror as he tries -and fails- to breathe once more, is a sight that gives him shameless satisfaction.

He doesn’t stick to dwell on it. Pulls it out fast, and lets the blood gush out in a waterfall. Instinctively, the man brings both hands up, clasping his throat, as if he can prevent the inevitable. He stumbles forward, and takes two shaky, drunken steps before collapsing on the ground.

Slade leaves him be and enters the room, which is lit by a large hearth in the middle, and absolutely looks like a torture chamber. He assumes it’s been used for training any unwilling sub unlucky enough to end up in Sionis’s private little hell. There’s any kind of disturbing equipment anyone could have ever imagined. Slings and heavy chains hanging from the ceiling. Benches and two different pillories. A rack and a torture table. Cages in various sizes -all designed for humans. Large collections of manacles and chains, collars and even muzzles. One huge bed.

Jason is here. Naked and on his knees, chained on the wall. The way Sionis holds his head up by the hair, Slade can make out his bloodied, terrified face, and even though he can’t quite catch the words coming out in small whimpers from his mouth, by the sound of them, they very much qualify as pleas. Whether he’s actually pleading for this to stop, or Sionis has driven him so down by now and actually made him plead to receive punishment, he doesn’t want to know. He’s attention’s much more focused on the branding iron Sionis holds dangerously close to the kid’s face.

“… this time, somewhere more visible,” the man purrs in sickening delight, “so that _everyone_ knows the very moment they set eyes on you—”

He reaches them in three strides. Grabs the wrist of that hand holding the iron with one hand, using the other to rip that hateful, horrid mask off the man’s dull face and throw it away.

_“What—!”_

Still holding his wrist, Slade turns it the other way, forcing the man firmly press the iron over his own face. Giving him an actual reason to wear that mask he so adores.

The scream is bloodcurdling. The smell of burnt flesh, acrid and pungent. Nauseating. It’s literally melting, some of it pilled off when Slade decides to let go, thick smoke still rising, from both the iron and from the newly deformed area.

He lets the man fall on the ground, only barely conscious. Leans over his form, and soon enough finds the key to the handcuffs in one of his pockets.

The kid’s in some kind of shock, he realizes when he crouches by him. Skin’s clammy, pupils dilated, breathing loud and frantic, and he’s shaking like a leaf. Once he’s removed the cuffs and thrown them away, Slade takes his battered face in his hands, making Jason look directly at him.

“Look at me,” he murmurs quietly. “We’re leaving, boy. Right now. You’re leaving with me.”

Jason swallows helplessly, a wounded sound escaping him. “I… I can’t… I can’t—”

Slade huffs. The kid’s completely out of it, and he doesn’t currently have the luxury to provide him with enough time to at least reasonably calm down first; he’ll have to make him follow by calling to his instincts. “You want to be a good boy for me,” he rumbles, thumbs gently running circles at the back of his hands. “Don’t you?”

Jason’s breath catches for a moment. Another swallow, milder this time. A spasm as Slade leans forward and lightly presses lips against his temple.

“Will you be a good boy for me?” he repeats in the same, hopefully somewhat calming tone.

He feels the kid sighing, and then hesitantly leaning against him, subtly nuzzling his face against his throat. “Y—Yes, Sir,” he eventually manages.

Slade murmurs another reassuring “good boy” and presses a kiss on that temple before breaking the contact and taking a look around. The sordid shift Jason’s been wearing is nowhere to be found, but there are actually many different ones, folded on a shelf by the bed. They must have been white once but gone a light shade of grey after extensive use. Looking and smelling clean, though. Will do, for the time. It’s not exactly pleasant to think about the use of these clothes, but it doesn’t really matter. Not anymore. He’ll have those burnt once they reach their closest safe house on Dunelm Hill and he’s able to provide the kid with something comfortable and suitable to wear.

The longest one actually fits Jason’s body, falling down to his knees. There’s no blanket to be seen, and he’s not going to look for one. Once Jason’s put it on, Slade wraps him in the heavy cloak he finds thrown over the bed. He assumes it belongs to Sionis, which means it also heads straight to the fire after it serves its purpose (the trip is more than two hours long, and the night is cold; can’t have the kid freezing on him).

The grunt coming from the floor just a few feet away gets his attention for a moment.

Sionis is moving, regaining conscience. Trying to crawl to… who knows where.

As Slade leaves the kid seated on the bed (he can’t quite stand on his feet without support right now) and approaches, the worm stops moving. He lays still, sweating, breathing heavily, and starring up at him in something that very much resembles pure agony. Smoke’s still rising from the bright red skull marking his left cheek.

“I’m taking him back to his father,” Slade casually informs him. “I could kill you right now but, to be honest with you… I _very_ much revel in the idea of you racing to disappear from the face of the earth before Wayne gets his hands on you. Call me a _sadist.”_

* * *

“So,” Billy drawls approximately six hours later, when everyone’s withdrawn for some well-deserved sleep and resting time, and the two of them are finally alone in the parlour. “Bruce Wayne’s _son._ I’ll be goddamned.”

Slade growls affirmatively, throwing himself on the armchair opposite him. He finally feels he can take an actual breath by the warmth of the fireplace, after riding in the chill for two hours, with the kid passed out against him, and then tending to his injuries at Raven’s instructions as well as suffering Terra’s unstoppable stream of suspicious questions.

The team’s fine, of course; arrived an hour after him and Jason. A few black eyes, scratches and split lips, and a superficial stab wound on Hank, but that’s just about it. From Wally’s excited descriptions, it is to his understanding that the entire place has been diminished into glass, nails and bricks. Very little worth to be saved. Most of the clients, as well as the Titans, left the place after a fire erupted. The vast majority of the workers apparently escaped, taking with them anything precious they were able to carry. No one got a single glimpse of Sionis.

Good. All’s good.

“Wayne’s going to pay a fortune for getting his son back. We won’t even have to ask.”

“I see,” Billy hums, bringing the slot of his pipe to his lips, that are currently crooked in a mischievous smirk. “That’s why we’ve been going back and forth for an entire year. You knew all along. I bet the raven black hair and pretty blue eyes have nothing to do with it.”

Slade narrows his eye at him. As if Billy would take that shit. The man just chuckles -no further comments. Slade’s far too tired to be doing this at this point, and Wintergreen is very much aware of this.

“Going to bed,” he growls, getting up. “Have someone be with him. Can’t have him waking up alone.”

“It’s still early for Raven, she can tend to it for a few hours.”

“No. A dom. He might still be on drop once he wakes up. Will need someone to bring him back up in that case. You, or Dick. Who’s there now?”

Wintergreen’s smirk widens. “Dick.”

Slade takes a moment of consideration, before giving a nod. “For as long as the kid’s bedridden, I want Terra nowhere close to him without supervision.”

Since the moment she realized Jason is a sub, and taking into notice how Slade firmly remained by his side until Raven finished with whatever healing she was able to provide, her gaze obtained an unmistakable hostility. The girl is insanely antagonistic with whoever even slightly catches Slade’s attention. Dick’s been given a free pass, since, for one, she likes him too much, and secondly, he’s a dom; not something she can openly compete with. A new submissive that will be inevitably getting a whole lot of Slade’s attention (since he’s certainly not planning on keeping his affections from him, now that he can finally spoil him), she’s bound not to take this kindly -and cause more than a few problems, he assumes. He’ll have to be extremely careful with her, especially in the upcoming days.

“A wise decision,” Billy agrees, huffing out some of his smoke.

* * *

When he forces his eyelids to rise, Jason sees the most beautiful person in the world sat at the edge of the bed he’s lying at, looking down at him with the gentlest eyes. Eyes as blue and sparkling as the sapphires decorating Nightfall’s hilt. And not even the jewels of the ancestral sword of House Wayne match the beauty of this man.

“Hello, Jason,” he says, and the voice is smooth and even, as impossibly handsome as its owner.

Jason thinks he might have died and somehow got lucky enough to go to heaven, so the first question leaving his lips is an incoherent slur of, “W—what… are you?”

Because, this man might as well be an angel, is his first thought, that slowly dissolves once confusion makes its appearance on that face. “I… what?” the man starts before clearing his throat, obviously deciding to restart. “My name is Dick. Dick Grayson. One of Slade’s Titans.”

Dick. Dick Grayson. Jason knows that name. He’s not just one of Slade’s Titans, he’s pretty much Slade’s favourite person in the world, as far as Jason can tell, judging by the things Slade’s told him about their relationship so far (and the fact that Dick’s name is the one Slade mentions the most often every time he’s referring to their squad and journeys).

He now slowly starts connecting the dots. Memories slowly coming back to him. Roman’s ‘Love Room’, as he calls it. Slade ushering him out of the building and then the yard, heading to the stables. He remembers riding, leaning against Slade, until… until nothing. Nothingness. Had he passed out? And for how long?

“Slade…” he murmurs.

“He’s here, just downstairs,” Dick reassures him. “You’re in one of our hideouts, on Dunelm Hill. Do you want me to call for him?”

Away. Away from Blüdhaven. From that ungodly pit of despair.

Away from Roman.

He just now realizes just how… warm and comfortable he is. This bed, with all its heavy, woolen blankets, feels like the safest of nests surrounding him. Underneath, he’s dressed in clean clothes, a bit loose on him. Fabric’s creasy against his skin, like they’ve been freshly washed. He then turns his head to glance at the fireplace, a few feet away. At the wood’s crackling in the flames.

All of this combined with the sound of raindrops outside, the sweet numbness and sense of floating, feels like a dream.

His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, in the upper blanket. Feeling the rest of his muscles goinig utterly lax the moment fingers gently brush against his cheek. A gentle touch. Reassuring and relieving. Nothing sexual about it.

“Jason?” the man asks, sounding just a little worried.

Jason takes a small breath, coming back to himself. “Dick,” he says. It just comes to his lips so very naturally. And… it sounds so good. So good. Jason wants to say it again.

Dick’s breath hitches a bit, but he immediately reclaims equanimity. His other hand comes to squeeze lightly but firmly one of Jason’s. “Yes, I… yes. Tell me. Tell me what you need, Jason. Are you in too much pain? You need… some water? Do you want Slade? It’s alright. Whatever you need. Just tell me.”

Jason does want water. He wants Slade even more. He wants Dick’s soft, comforting touch to keep going. But most of all, he wants to know one thing. One single thing. “My brother,” he breathes.

Dick looks a bit confused. “Your brother? You want… your brother?”

He swallows down. “What is his name?”

Dick’s expression softens again, a small, bittersweet smile slightly lifting the corners of his lips. “Damian,” he says softly. “His name is Damian.”

Jason all but gasps. “Damian,” he slowly repeats.

Dick nods, still smiling. He’s got the most beautiful, enchanting smile in the whole world.

Damian. His baby brother’s name is Damian, and he can almost picture him now. A small, healthy, happy toddler, playing in the gardens with their father. How amazed Bruce must be with him already. He’s smiling in Jason’s head, like he did when he was with him. And there’s Alfred too, taking some time off his steward’s responsibilities to stand by for a moment and just watch them. Just watch them being happy.

“I might fall asleep,” he whispers.

“That’s alright,” Dick answers in an equally quiet voice. His hands, strong but soft, so different to Slade’s (and yet somehow far too similar) keep stroking him. Making him shiver a bit, in the most pleasant of ways. “It’s absolutely fine, Jason. You can close your eyes if you want.”

Jason lets go and does so, immediately.

He still feels his touch as he dozes of, and clings to that feeling.

* * *

When he opens the door, Dick barely bats an eye, only briefly glancing to identify the newcomer before turning his attention back to the sleeping boy on the bed. One of his hands is comfortingly rubbing one of Jason’s, while the fingers of the other are slowly brushing through his hair -currently brushing a few stands of hair away from his forehead.

“Going to bed,” he informs, heading towards them. “Will you be alright here?”

Dick doesn’t offer a verbal response -merely hums. Eyes not breaking away from Jason’s form for a single moment.

“Billy will be up in a few hours so you can go get some rest yourself,” Slade goes on.

Dick’s far too absorbed. He hears his voice, but not the words, apparently. “What?” he voices, and when Slade doesn’t answer, turns and glances at him. “Sorry. What?”

Slade lifts a brow, ever so slightly. “Wintergreen will be here up in a few hours. You should get some sleep as well.”

“Oh,” Dick shrugs. “That’s fine. I mean, I can stay. I can sleep here. I don’t mind. Really.”

Slade doesn’t restrain a smirk. Of course Dick doesn’t mind; he’s already so obviously smitten with Jason. Which works well. _Will_ work well. Very well. For all three of them. It was what he hoped for, after all. Hoped for, and expected, because he knows Dick like the back of his hand; give him a wounded, hurt puppy, and he’ll protect it with his life and shield it from the world with a ton of love. And if the puppy also happens to be not only a submissive one, but also as pretty as Jason… well.

Dick almost _needs_ someone to take care of, especially now that Terra has grown past that, and Jason desperately needs to be taken care of at this point, as much as possible. Dick can offer him so many things in which Slade lacks.

“He woke up for a moment,” Dick suddenly says.

Slade hums. “Did he ask for me?”

“Not really. He was so exhausted still. He just asked his brother’s name.”

Slade reaches out a hand and cards fingers through Dick’s hair. Kid leans into it, even though his gaze doesn’t break away from Jason.

“After Billy gets here, come sleep with me.”

Dick chuckles a bit, now his attention turning to him for a moment. “After all of that shit today, you’re still in the mood?”

Slade’s always in the mood for action with Dick Grayson. Not that he would mind just sleeping curled up around the kid, either. “Get there, and we’ll see what happens.”

Dick just nods, and he takes his hand off and walks away. Takes one last glance at the two boys -those two _gorgeous_ boys- before shutting the door behind him.

According to Raven, it’ll take Jason approximately two months to recover enough to travel safely. Slade would give it another one, just to be sure. It’ll probably take another three after that for the whole bunch of them to get to Gotham. Up until that point, he’s going to get as much time as he possibly can to enjoy both of the boys together. If Jason is still up for it, of course. He’s pretty certain from what he’s witnessed so far that Dick, at least, absolutely will be.

It’s probably a terribly egoistic, if not straight-up lewd thought to have.

Whatever.

Slade never claimed to be a saint, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


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